


On the Mend

by ferretsoda



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Injury, Friendship, Injury Recovery, M/M, Slow Burn, friends to lovers (eventually)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27173728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferretsoda/pseuds/ferretsoda
Summary: The men set the Inquisitor down on a stretcher, and it was now clear to everyone what had happened: the heavy lamellar chestplate that he wore had been ripped, blasted wide open. The worst part, though, was the smoldering. Thin trails of smoke drifted out from the Inquisitor's body, along with soft moaning.As he neared, he got a full view of the damage: the chestplate itself looked like it had been blood eagled, split in half and hanging off the hinges. The inside was... a mess.
Relationships: Male Inquisitor & Varric Tethras, Varric Tethras/Male Trevelyan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	On the Mend

  
The first thing he could make out was the hazy image of four men carrying the Inquisitor off the battlefield. Two men abreast, they supported him like a sacrificial offering. Crowds of soldiers began to gather at the edge of camp while others rushed forward to protect their leader.

"Stay back!" came a voice. Solas strode through the waves of footsoldiers and archers, hand stretching back behind him. His robes billowed behind him in a commanding fashion, and it was enough to stop the troops in their tracks.

The men set the Inquisitor down on a stretcher, and it was now clear to everyone what had happened: the heavy lamellar chestplate that he wore had been ripped, blasted wide open. The worst part, though, was the smoldering. Thin trails of smoke drifted out from the Inquisitor's body, along with soft moaning.

One of the men carefully took the Inquisitor's helmet off. His head had been spared any grievous injuries, save for a few cuts and nicks. He looked miles away, though; head bobbing and nodding, eyes glassy. It was enough to make a man's skin crawl, how unnatural it looked. Solas traced a hand across the blonde man's brow, before looking up at the group who brought him back.

"In my tent, my bag, fetch it quickly."

As they rushed off, he looked over his shoulder for a familiar face. Spying Varric, he called him over. The dwarf wasted no time.  
As he neared, he got a full view of the damage: the chestplate itself looked like it had been blood eagled, split in half and hanging off the hinges. The inside was... a mess. Like a pie that had been left in the oven for too long. Varric reeled back, but Solas grabbed his wrist roughly.

"Steel yourself, Master Tethras."

"H-he's--"

"He needs our help."

They were interrupted by a soldier dropping the bag between them. Solas cast a protective barrier, then looked back at Varric.

"We need to pry his armor off before anything else."

Varric swallowed hard, fingers trembling at what lay ahead of them, and nodded. Everyone grabbed hold of the armor, already weakened from the blast, and began pulling.

"N-no," came a weak cry from the Inquisitor. Solas grabbed the man's square face in one hand and spoke louder and slower.

"Inquisitor, you've been injured. The armor must come off."

The human just tossed his head weakly back and forth. He was growing paler by the second. Solas swore under his breath and dug around in his bag. Multiple glass vials were pulled out, cast haphazardly on the grass. Meanwhile, the soldiers and Varric were still cracking the chestplate open.

"D--demons!" the Inquisitor cried out, louder.

"Varric, calm him."

"M-me?!"

The group paused to glare at him until he finally scrambled next to the blonde warrior.

"Take it easy, Inquisitor," he tried to murmur soothingly. But the man just whimpered and muttered incoherently. Varric gingerly stroked his sweaty head, casting a worried look at Solas. His lungs felt like they were full of ice as he watched the man slowly begin to die.

The men pulled like workhorses. Teeth grit behind fierce beards, muscles working overtime. With a mighty "CRACK", the scorched, warped metal fell off like a draconic eggshell. Just as quickly as the armor fell, trails of blood poured off and out of the Inquisitor's torso. Fortunately, the barrier kept it all contained, creating a caldera of blood, living tissue, exposed bone, and the like. Whatever shirt had been underneath the armor had all but vaporized. Varric felt his stomach churn violently at the sight.

"Hand me a vial...--Varric!"

The dwarf grasped the closest one and passed it off with one hand, the other firmly clasped against his mouth. His eyes squeezed shut for a moment. How Solas and the others could stomach this was beyond him.

The elven mage began dumping bottle after bottle of healing solutions, tonics, etc. After each application, he'd press a hand firmly into the living, fleshy soup. And little by little, it began to reabsorb itself into his body. Muscles reformed, bone fragments fused themselves back into solid structures, veins and arteries intertwined once more. Solas placed a hand onto the Inquisitor's face (leaving a bloody print), studying him carefully. The man had fainted away. Varric had retreated back a few feet, eyes and mouth shielded.

After several minutes of silence, he sighed a great breath of relief.

"He'll be alright."

The soldiers' faces, stained with soot and grime, softened.

"He must be bandaged and have a brace made for his rib cage. His body will need several weeks to recov-"

"LOOK!" cried a soldier, pointing at the Inquisitor.

Underneath the drying blood, strange markings could be seen. A vast, snaking network of scars blossomed forth from Inquisitor Lockler's shoulder, coiling around his torso. Smaller scars branched out from the bigger ones, ending in such delicate, feather-like patterns. Everyone, dwarven author included, couldn't help but gape.

"What did you do?!" cried Varric.

"I did nothing! I mean-- I healed him but I did _not_ do **that**!" the elf retorted, pointing accusingly at the scarred man who lay before them.

"Well I've never seen scars like that before," Varric started. Solas stood up, while the soldiers around them beckoned for others to come help them. "Forgive me if I'm not just the tiniest bit suspicious that your healing isn't a little flawed!"

"I can assure you, Varric, that these are not my handiwork." With that final, biting remark, Solas picked up his bag, and followed the men who were now carrying the Inquisitor to the safety of the main camp.

Varric stood there on the grass, brow furrowed.

Something wasn't right.

* * *

Varric spent the rest of the afternoon retching into a bucket. He could put on a brave front for his friends, but always paid the price later. The stench of burning skin still made his gag reflex kick in again and again, until he gave a final, pitiful "yurk". Stomach empty, he staggered back to his tent, wiping his face with a wet cloth and then tossing it aside. He vaguely noted how the Inquisitor's tent looked like an anthill, with soldiers circling it and healers coming and going. He was in good hands.

Soft blankets cushioned him as he fell to his trembling knees. His head hit the pillow and he was out like a doused flame.

* * *

  
At the start of each new day, the troops received updates on their leader's recovery. At first, only healers and Solas were permitted to visit him. It wasn't unusual to see bundles of linen in their arms, or freshly-cut herbs and grasses. But as the days rolled by, soldiers slowly began to trickle in to pay their respects. Varric would see scouts saluting the Inquisitor's tent just before they'd head out into the field. It was a nice gesture, he thought. Those who were sent out would leave small cards or gifts on a small stone fence just beyond the tent. The healers would collect and deliver them once a good pile had been made (which was often).

Truth be told, Varric really wanted to see the Inquisitor. He had so many questions, all of them revolving around those scars. They were perplexing and fascinating. In all his years, he'd never seen anything like them. How did he get them? They must have numbered in the hundreds. For three long days, a desire incubated in his head: to write a story about a man with those same scars.

He would pay his respects, as well, like any good ally should. He and the Inquisitor weren't really "friends". He'd given the man a nickname, as an invitation to get to know each other better, but... well, it didn't pan out. The man was reserved, or something like it. He hid away from the main hall in Skyhold, as he disliked crowds, especially other Marcher nobles; he avoided Josephine like the plague, if he could. That would explain why most of his deeds were never done with diplomacy. As a result, his reputation was a bit tarnished. As a person, he was kind enough. It was hard to pin him down for a conversation, though: he was either in the courtyard, practicing his swordfighting (which one _never_ interrupted), or hiding away in the undercroft. Tougher to crack than his armor, that's for sure.

The dwarf kicked an odd stone with a boot, before looking up at the large cream-colored tent some 80 feet away. His brow wrinkled, thinking for a moment. Then he nodded to himself, and strolled out of the camp, bookbag in tow.

He came back, hours later, with a few wildflowers under one arm and a hastily-written manuscript in the other.

* * *

  
"Now we tolerate almost anything here," the elven healer began. "Only one thing we do draw the line at: no touching the Inquisitor." She clapped her hand on Varric's shoulder, smiling softly. The dwarf stared blankly.

"R-right. Uh, is he allergic to flowers?" He held up the small bouquet.

"Oh how darling!" she cooed. Varric actually blushed a little, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one heard that. He saw one guardswoman looking back at him, eyebrow raised. "No, I should say not. Please, do come in."

The elven woman smoothly entered the tent and held the flap open for him. As he stepped in, he was stunned by how clean and bright everything was. His tent felt like it was made of gauze, it was so airy. Rolls of freshly-washed linen were hung to dry off to one side. A mortar and pestle stood on a nightstand, surrounded by bundles of fresh-cut herbs. Several strips of bandage were draped above the cot, almost decoratively. A small wicker good-luck charm hung from a tent pole just beyond the man's cot, with soft blue and green feathers intertwined into it. The Inquisitor himself lay nestled in clean white sheets, only one arm resting above them, tucked at his side. As Varric and the healer approached, he could make out a strange, rigid silhouette around the man's torso. Probably the brace Solas mentioned.

He looked pale, not deathly white like he was before, but still not out of the woods. His eyes looked like a raccoon's, ringed with red and mauve. If he looked bad, he sounded worse. Varric faltered as he heard the man's raspy breathing.

"Inquisitor... Lockler." The woman leaned down to murmur softly to the human. As he stirred, she brushed a few platinum locks off his forehead. "You have someone here to see you."

Sea-green eyes fluttered open, and Trevelyan slowly turned his head over towards Varric and the elf. Varric gave a hesitant smile and a curt nod. After a long moment, the Inquisitor closed his eyes and nodded twice as a signal. The healer bowed out of the tent and left the two men alone.

The heavy silence was broken only by Lockler's ragged breaths. Varric stood, hands clasped, feeling nervous and not knowing why. He had the strangest feeling, like he was locked in a cage with a great, wounded beast. Trevelyan just wasn't the kind of man who "radiated" power; he hadn't shown any inkling of it in the months he'd been leader of the Inquisition. So why did it feel like he was now?

Suddenly the man opened his eyes and spotted the colorful wildflowers in the rogue's hand. Varric noticed his staring and brightened.

"Oh! Heh, I, uh, brought you these." He held them up, twirling them around in his fingers. He looked back at the inquisitor, who just lay there. Then, after several moments, he saw the man weakly gesture with his hand.

It took him a second, but then Varric's eyes lit up in realization. He set his manuscript on a stool nearby and leaned down, holding the bouquet like it was made of glass. Trevelyan lifted his hand weakly only to rest it near Varric's, his thumb gently stroking the flowers' stalks. He took a long inhale and sighed at the bouquet's perfume. A look of contentment washed over his drained face, his eyes drifting shut. Then he nodded again, signaling for Varric to take them away. The dwarf set them in a water pitcher on the nightstand and nearly sat on his manuscript.

Varric let his eyes wander around the tent, now noticing the cards and letters strewn everywhere. Little gifts dotted the landscape, so to speak. A small bear carved out of wood, a little bottle of brandy, several drawings, even a well-crafted protective rune. Varric smiled, a little hint of affection fluttering in his heart. Things like that made him secretly happy, and he couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was the feeling of knowing that someone he wanted to befriend was admired by others. A good investment, emotionally speaking. He looked back down to Trevelyan, who was also staring at the gifts, before meeting his gaze. There was an expectant twinkle in his eye.

"I know you've been fighting it tooth and nail but... let's face it, Dogtooth, you're pretty popular. Better learn to live with it."

Give him some credit, he actually made a mortally-wounded man smile. The Inquisitor couldn't help but grin shyly, lip catching on the extra canine that had earned him the nickname. Then Varric noticed the man's shoulders shaking. His grin turned into something of a grimace, and he shot the rogue a look.

"Hurts to laugh," he rasped. His voice was so husky and raw it could tan leather. Then he added, "Damn you."

The author couldn't help but beam at this, and actually ended up laughing. He rocked forward in his seat. "He-hey! You're the one who accused me of being a demon!" he replied.

Trevelyan's expression darkened at this. He couldn't help but look away, face contorted by shame and worry. This plucked a chord of guilt in the dwarf's heart, and he threw up his hands.

"No no no, it's alr--- you're alright!" he struggled to spit out. His mind tripped over his mouth as he tried to speak as quickly as he thought. He felt like a cat on hot bricks-- he'd obviously said something wrong. Mindlessly, he shot a hand out to grasp at the larger man's exposed arm, and gave the muscle a reassuring squeeze. At once, the Inquisitor turned back, astonished at Varric's behavior. The dwarf drew his hand back like he'd been scalded. As he stood up, he knocked his stool over in his haste.

"I have--have to go," he muttered quickly, and bolted out of the tent.

* * *

  
Varric didn't return to Lockler after that. It was an agonizing decision, as he'd find himself staring at the tent most evenings. But each time, he'd shake his head and sigh. It had been a dismal meeting. He still couldn't think why he'd grabbed his arm like that. It just came naturally. After all, when consoling one's friends, sometimes a physical presence reminded them they weren't alone.

Maybe _that_ was it. The root of all this pointless drama. He just wasn't friends with Lockler, wasn't close enough to him to be able to cross that threshold. The man was reserved, after all. He'd seen him at his most vulnerable.

Varric threw down his spoon into the cooling bowl of salted beef stew, startling his companions at the fireside. The Iron Bull reared his large head back.

"Hey, come on, it's not that bad!" he began. But Varric had already stood up and started off for the Inquisitor's tent.

* * *

  
Lockler pushed himself up for a few seconds, until the healers made him lie back down. He gave a defeated sigh as they reminded him that the mechanical brace required him to lie at such and such an angle, and how he shouldn't be moving as his rib cage was still so tender...

"I'll be as weak as a kitten," he protested. The elven healer, who had been by his side since the incident, smiled reassuringly.

"Better to build your strength back up than be crippled for life, Inquisitor. Shall we fetch you some dinner?"  
He rolled his eyes indignantly. "What is it tonight?"

"I believe The Iron Bull has prepared some beef stew-"

The Inquisitor made a noise of disgust. "Maker, no! Man puts too much salt in it. Just get me some bread and butter, I suppose. And an ale." He shot his caretakers a stubborn look. "If I'm allowed any."

Seconds after they left, a commotion could be heard outside. The guards' voices became louder.

"Visiting hours are not scheduled fo-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know the rules, no touching the Inquisitor."

"Master Tethras--!"

The tent flaps flew back in a dramatic fashion as the golden-haired dwarf strode in. Lockler, who had been startled out of his thoughts, stared, dumbfounded.

"Inquisitor," said Varric, nodding briskly. He wasted no time and sat down right next to the man, who couldn't help but lean back a little. The guards, who had been watching, were waved away by Lockler.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, until at last the rogue bowed his head, scratching the back of his neck. 

"I'd... like to apologize. For what I said. And did."

The blonde subconsciously pulled his bedcovers a little bit higher, feeling embarrassed now. He gave an audible swallow and looked down at his hands, rubbing them together.

"Ah."

"Look, I'm--" Varric lifted his head up briefly, saw the man's face, and dropped it back down, giving a sigh that sounded like steam hissing from one of Bianca's machines. "I'm... I don't usually do that, honest. But--it--we were going to lose you!" he cried, lifting his head up at last. Lockler was looking at him with sad, widening eyes. Nothing was hidden behind them. The pair stared once more, until Varric felt his throat tighten. He leaned forward to prop an elbow on his knee, then rested his head in his hand. He slid his palm across his stubbled jaw, covering his mouth and hopefully thwarting any attempts at crying. His eyes, however, betrayed him as they glistened. He sat like that for ten or fifteen seconds, as Lockler watched him with full attention.

Finally, he spoke, hand dropping just a little.

"I've lost a lot of friends," he admitted softly. He stared into space for a while, before looking back to Trevelyan. "Didn't want to lose another."  
Few words had affected him as profoundly as those did that evening. He felt his own throat tightening as realization and emotion crashed over him like a great, roaring wave.

"Inquisitor?"

Both men turned sharply to see the elven healer standing at the entryway, a plate of warm bread in one hand, and a mug in the other. A few other healers, all women, poked their heads in from behind her, bobbing about like inquistive cats.

"Ah, Master Tethras! Will you join us for supper?"

Varric dropped his hand and cleared his throat quickly, blinking rapidly to hide the evidence of his emotions.

"Ah, no, no, I've already eaten, thanks. Just wanted to check in on Dogtooth here." He stood up, trying to make small talk and avoid the Inquisitor's eyes as he inched past the medical staff. They exchanged goodbyes and he stole out into the night.

As the healers sat down to enjoy an evening meal with their leader, the elven one smiled as she handed his mug to him.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

The Inquisitor paused, wiped away his eyes with a wrist, and smiled into his ale. "On the mend."

**Author's Note:**

> Looking back at my last fic, I realized that wasn't the direction I wanted to go (though it was interesting). I wanted a more... normal, down to earth person for Varric to befriend. Slow burn with good ol' Dogtooth.


End file.
